


The Gunman in Black

by Anarchyinplasma



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Stephen King, Western Styling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchyinplasma/pseuds/Anarchyinplasma
Summary: A short story, inspired to an extent by the theme of Stephen King's Gunslinger, written as a birthday gift for a friend of mine.





	The Gunman in Black

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I'm sorry, I've been busy and lazy, too long a post gap. Sorry. Hope you enjoy regardless.
> 
> Enjoy.  
> Criticism is, as always, welcome.

The gunman in black laid prone, a lonely figure amid the swirling dust. He adjusted his position slightly, which resulted in the flat, dull scraping of fine grains against his belt buckle and clothes. The cloth acting as a cushion between his rifle’s barrel and the crevice of the rocks in which the polished onyx metal was resting fluttered in the breeze, he reached up and tucked away the loose edge, paying special mind to keep it out of the channel cut into the bottom of the barrel, where it could catch, and jam his rounds; and then he waited.

He waited for hours, the sun crawling lethargically across the sky, harsh heat blanketing the dusty basin with its oppressive aura. Midday passed, the man in black took a small sip from his water skin, eyes never straying from the entrance to the small secluded basin. The ragged edge of his right fingernail scraped a careworn path against the leather wrapped stock of his gun, stray fibres running out of the very edge of the stitching, worsening ever so slightly with each pass.

As the position of the sun in the sky reached two o’clock, a column of four men maneuvered the narrow passage into the basin, by now the dust had settled, and the gunman in black could see the metal fixings on their clothing glinting in the blinding sunlight. His finger stopped it’s ceaseless scratching.

The gunman exhaled slowly, every muscle in his body relaxing, braced for the kick in his shoulder. He fired the first shot.

The round whizzed across the shallow-cut land, the leader of the small group barely had the time to look up at the sound of a shot before the metal impacted his collarbone. The domed metal scraped off the bone, ricocheting upwards, into the eye-socket of the man directly behind him, the man in the dirty blue poncho. Both men jerked, the group’s pointman falling with a shout, hand flying to cup the wound upon his shoulder, the man in the blue poncho fell forwards, his cold, lifeless corpse hitting the dusty floor with a frigid thud, kicking up puffs of dirt that settled soon after, small, tiny grains, fluttering down from their brief heights.

The gunman on the rocks quickly worked the polished steel lever on his rifle, the iconic double click-clack of worn metal interacting the only sound in the briefly quiet air. The metal, slicked and worn smooth from decades of use; barely fluttered the grains of sand in its path, the spent cartridge was ejected without ceremony, flashing a brief arc through the air as it spiraled from the receiver, coming to rest in the sands with a soft, muted sound. The wind started to pick up once more, and again, the gunman fired.

His second shot shrieked across the distance like lightning, impacting the downed pointman in his chest, slightly to the right of his sternum, ending up lodged in his heart. He too fell dead, pitching forwards into the dirty sand with a soft thump. The gunman again worked the lever action as the remaining two men scrambled into the burned out husks of metal for cover and started to sight at the ridge, waiting for a shot.

The wind was howling now, whisking the sand and dust into a fervour as the standoff began to take shape.  
Slowly the gunman inched his hand forwards, running his finger along the channel of his rifle to count his remaining rounds. One left, two used recently, another seven yesterday, on the previous contingent. He snatched the cloth out from under the rifle and slid down his dug-in channel at the back of the ridge, past the remnants of his campfire, and the quizzical black bird watching his every move from a lone decaying white branch jutting out from a crack in the rock.

He slid into a crouch as he exited the channel, bringing his repeater up for it’s last shot as he attained a perfect angle upon his unsuspecting target, dust swirling in the edges of his vision, playing dry havoc with his perception of the battle. He lined up his shot, breathed out, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet arced, spinning into the wind as it cut dust apart on it’s tip and entered the ribs of the second to last man to die. He crumpled, handgun falling with a clatter onto the floor of the burned out vehicle husk he sought shelter in. The gunman knew better than to seek shelter in those, they brought only death.

The final man rolled out of his cover as the gunman set his repeater down, carefully, lest he treat his livelihood with anything other than respect. The man in the white poncho started to fire shots in the gunman’s general direction, hoping to goad him into a retreat, and allow the man in white favourable ground.

The gunman in black stood his ground, sliding his six-shooter from it’s worn leather holster, the polished silver barrel slid free of leather with nary a whisper, and, then, as suddenly as it had started, the wind halted; and the gunman rattled off three shots, hitting centre-mass with the first two. The target started to fall. The final bullet streaked toward the star pinned into his hat, marking him a lawman of the state. The lead dome smashed into the star, denting it, but not penetrating, then, by fluke, ricocheted away, upsetting by a near miss the black bird still watching from it’s dead perch with an indignant squawk.

The gunman recollected his things, rubbed a blemish from his repeater’s golden receiver, and set off into the howling wastes. A shrill calling rhyme followed him, one that would haunt him later into his life.  
“One for sorrow,  
Two for joy,  
Three for a girl,  
Four for a boy,  
Five for silver,  
Six for gold,  
Seven for a secret,  
Never to be told.  
Eight for a wish,  
Nine for a kiss,  
Ten for a bird,  
You must not miss”

Many years, when he met the man in white again. He would question whether the bird was a raven, or a crow.


End file.
